Points of View
by oneiromancer242
Summary: How others see us can be very different to how we see ourselves. One character per chapter reflects on how they see Peter - and that's not always flattering.
1. Jean Grey

**A/N : Hope you enjoy this one. Obviously I'm still working on the prompts I have. If you'd particularly like to see the viewpoint of a character I might not think of covering, feel free to suggest it. Thanks as always!**

 **POLL : The winner of my favourite OC poll is Angela Goldsmith (Spark), a runaway winner - thanks for voting and I'm glad you like her!**

1 : Jean

Headaches, again. Thundering, throbbing pressure behind her eyes that even laying down in a dark room would do nothing whatsoever for, and no aspirin or Tylenol would touch. A single drop of blood fell down from one nostril, ran over the leg of her pants, but she was in too much pain and confusion to worry about it overly. The new boy was just…. Oh, far too much. Too fast, too enthusiastic, too energetic, too nervy, too emotional, too everything. Keeping her telepathy under control was hard enough, without feeling like someone was screaming inside her head – and not just screaming, but doing so hard and so loud that she felt the bones of her skull vibrate with it.

She could barely focus on her surroundings, too occupied with putting two fingers to her temples and rubbing firmly as if that might relieve the pressure somehow. Struggled to throw up some kind of defense. A hopeless task – it was like trying to stem a roaring waterfall with a single sheet of tissue paper. Somehow when they had been out in the desert, trying to pull the rag-tag band together into enough of a team to take down the most powerful group of Mutants on earth, she had been so focussed on keeping the Professor safe, on doing her job, on standing up against those impossible odds that the boy's mind hadn't even bothered her. Been aware of an insistent, nagging hum in the background of her thoughts, but never realised how bad it could get until they had helped him back onto the Blackbird.

He'd helped them so much, thrown himself straight into danger without a thought for his own safety – although, Jean considered, if she had a mutation like his she'd probably do all sorts of foolhardy things knowing she could get away in time. Nonetheless, she could feel the goodness and bravery in him, giving the lie to his cocky bravado and studied cool. Sensed from the outset that as much as he was here for his own reasons, he would not see harm come to innocent people.

She'd not heard the first few screams, when he'd taken those injuries that now had him writhing against restraining arms. As soon as they had been away from the clamour of battle, however, they had risen like sirens in her mind, resonating around her perception like fire until her whole thoughts had been alight with his terror and agony. Wanted to scream back at him to stop, to keep quiet, to somehow muzzle his thoughts before they deafened her – but one look had told her that he could not. The angle of his arm, held tightly across his chest, was all wrong, bones protruding from a tear in the leg of his pants. She could feel the pain, but more clearly feel the panic and fear and desperate need to break free from the arms that held him tightly pinned.

Then her eyes did not see the man in his mid-twenties who had fought beside them, but a frightened child with long silver hair hanging around sharp, painfully prominent cheekbones. Clinging not to their former enemy but to a red-haired girl who tried in vain to comfort him, sobbing against her body inconsolably. Felt the longing for that girl and for his mother and his own room and his own bed, and for this pain and fear to end now.

Hank had set his leg with a wrench that pulled at Jean's own tendons with unbearable sudden pressure, glad that her own muffled moan of reflected pain was buried in his screaming. She could not look, buried her head between her knees and crushed her arms tightly against her stomach, suddenly sick and lightheaded. Then the screams had stopped, both inside and out. Their enemy was reaching for a towel to clean the bile from his clothes, the boy unconscious in his arms. Scooped into a blanket, remaining out cold for the rest of the journey. Jean's mind was blissfully, wonderfully quiet after that.

She learned defences, built walls that stopped his thoughts from bleeding into hers, though it still felt as if he were shaking at the foundations of those walls every time she was around him. Grew to know him as a prankster and a general pain who delighted in mischief and was rarely to be found out of some sort of trouble. Caught herself missing him for those few weeks after Hank had finally removed the cast from his broken leg and sent him home for a while to fully recuperate. That had been unexpected – she had thought she would never miss the buzz of his thoughts leaching through her defences, the cheeky grin and troublemaking nature. Once he had gone however, she had realised she liked him after all. Never mind that he was their enemy's son, that he was volatile and moody and a whole heap of trouble, she could not forget the fragile boy she'd seen on the jet. Could not help but feel he needed the protection of the Academy, with such power and vulnerability packaged into one body. Welcomed him back when he had returned with a warmth she had not anticipated, even kissed him gently on the cheek and returned the enthusiastic hug he had given her.

That moment, she held precious in her most private thoughts. Not because he was handsome – though he was, he just wasn't her type at all. Too wiry for her tastes, and striking though it was, that silver hair just wasn't for her. Grew fond of him not for any shallow reason, but because just for one moment, she had looked up at him and seen how happy he was to be back there, how the fragile boy had found strength in their numbers and some sort of safe haven where he could learn to control the chaos of his own mind. Seen that like her, there was a darkness and a power in him that only the goodness the Professor offered could ever hope to tame.

Jean was solitary by nature, an early riser who enjoyed the peace of the Mansion in the mornings, rarely disturbed by anything more than a student who could not sleep, or had woken from a nightmare. They all had them, some more frequently than others. He had them a lot. Sometimes, she would allow her barriers down just a little when she would be up early enough to catch him returning from his morning run, watch him when he thought nobody could see him leaning against the balcony where he liked to be alone. Those early-morning thoughts were rarely pleasant, coloured with remembered terror from awful dreams, with memories of suffering and with the ache of missing his family. He would catch her looking on occasion, quickly think of something cheerful or mundane – at that time, usually breakfast – to draw a veil over the sadness and emptiness that lay buried deeply under his bubbly exterior personality.

It never worked very well. That was why she kept an eye out for him.


	2. Scott Summers

2\. Scott

He'd hated him at first. Furious and hurt that he had not saved his brother, when every other soul in the Mansion had been safely evacuated in milliseconds. He *must* have seen Alex there, *must* have had time to save him too. It had felt like a personal insult, especially when he'd noticed Maximoff had managed to save a dog and a jugful of goldfish, but not his beloved brother.

That hatred had rankled at Scott for a long while. The motor-mouthed, arrogant little speedster always seemed to be so cool, so collected. He seemed to really have it together, been a hit with the girls at the Academy in a way that the shy, reserved Scott hadn't been, charmed everyone with his boisterous and fun-loving nature. Hated him for his athletic ability, which quite apart from his speed was something to behold – small and light enough to weave around the others in basketball, make jumps that taller players could only dream of. Strong enough to easily best Scott in a bench-press, forever complaining that the machines in the gym didn't go hard enough for him. Hated him for his easy-going charm and quick sarcastic wit, his ability to get himself out of trouble with a quip and a wink as easily as he could get himself into it. Hated his sharp, flashy dress sense that seemed to dare anyone to pick on him, that James Dean cool that he exuded at all times.

Most of all he hated his eyes. Maximoff had huge, dark, expressive eyes that could be as tempting as melted chocolate or as appealing and innocent as a Labrador puppy. He knew it too, and used those big eyes to full effect. Forever hidden behind ruby quartz, Scott felt like his emotions were muffled by his mutation, hiding his thoughts and feelings even when he wanted them to shine through. Was jealous beyond all hope of the handsome young man who had joined their ranks and immediately been popular with everybody, loathing him with a passion that he hadn't thought he was capable of. Thought that the boy was just another big-headed bragging idiot who for some reason people flocked around, leaving Scott again in the shade. He couldn't even compete with him academically – that processing speed, when he bothered to apply himself, was enough that he could do phenomenally well in any subject he liked. The only thing that kept him from being top of every class was his own incredible laziness and distractibility.

The change in Scott's thinking had come very suddenly. The anniversary of the plane crash that had killed his parents had come around again, and once more the news was full of the amateur footage of the passenger plane coming down, the stories of the people who had lost loved ones on that flight, the investigations into what had gone so wrong. It was everywhere, inescapable. With Alex gone, the pain had been worse than ever, spending hours in the gym beating seven shades of hell out of a punchbag until Scott had realised that he was no longer alone. Turned and felt fury washing over him at the sight of the boy behind him, appearing as he always did seemingly out of nowhere. Looking handsome and fantastic as always, with that perfectly groomed wavy silver hair and that athletic figure set off perfectly by drainpipe jeans, a Bowie t-shirt. Scott had sworn at him then, told him to leave him alone. He hadn't. Instead he'd come over, seeming not to care that Scott could burn his face off if he chose to, led him over to one of the benches. Told Scott he knew he wasn't okay, and that if he wanted to talk about it, he was always around.

It hadn't even occurred to him that Maximoff even noticed him, let alone noticed when he was unhappy. Over the next couple of days, it was as if he was seeing a whole different side of the boy, noticing the way he would take the time to help the Very Small Mutants tie their shoelaces – not do it for them, but patiently show them how to do it themselves. That though girls flocked around him, he never made a move on any of them and treated them all equally kindly and respectfully. How though he rarely bothered to do his own homework until the last moment, he would happily help others with theirs. Always stuffing his face with something, but always offering to share it, always there with a hug and a smile for anyone and never letting anyone leave him without feeling happier than they had been. When he thought he was unobserved, that smile would fall away and leave a pensive, hollow look that for some reason, Scott had never seen before, too caught up in his jealousy to realise that the boy had feelings like everyone else.

Scott had taken him up on his offer in the end. Swallowed his pride and gone to knock on the door of his room. Maximoff kept his room surprisingly tidy – Scott figured someone as chaotic as him would be messy, but the place was welcoming and clean, a good place to talk. Though he fidgeted continually – something Scott had realised he couldn't help – he'd listened patiently. Refrained from offering any advice, just let the other boy talk and get his feelings off his chest. Only smiled and shrugged when he'd admitted how much he'd hated and envied him. Told Scott that he could see how that could happen, and that for the record, he liked him anyway.

He stopped avoiding Maximoff after that. Still bitched at him, traded insults and berated him in training for his risk-taking and distracted foolishness. Still made barbed comments and didn't pull his punches the way he should when they were sparring. But from that time on, he'd felt some of the anger and jealously slip away and eventually dissipate. Seen that the way he hardly flinched when he got hurt – even when it was pretty bad – was not from any tough-guy act but from long experience of bearing pain, that he couldn't help his mischief and felt so isolated and out-of-step that sometimes a good prank was all that stopped him going crazy. Even started to feel a bit sorry for him on occasion, spending so much time by himself when everyone was asleep and living on his highly-strung nerves. Started to value him as team member and appreciate his abilities, and even see him as a friend and someone he trusted in times of need.

Though that didn't mean he didn't irritate the hell out of Scott, of course. That, it seemed would never change.


	3. Dr Henry McCoy

Hank :

Even from the first time they had met, down in the crowded basement of his family home. He'd been fascinated by the boy. Thought that he must be a teleporter, such was the speed with which he had weaved and zipped about the room. Talked their ears off in the car, yapping at a hundred miles an hour about this and that and everything in between. Hank had tuned it out, wondering what incredible adaptations he might find beneath that delicate pale skin that would allow him to do what he did. Even Peter's continual chatter and demands for snacks had not irritated him, but rather had cemented his desire to know exactly what made the boy tick.

Struggling with his own humanity not just due to his mutation, but also his finely attuned scientific brain, Hank sometimes forgot that his fellow Mutants might not like being studied, became so caught up in the fascinations of their adapted physiologies that he would forget on the odd occasion that some Mutants had already been through testing and studies, and did not want those memories brought back, no matter how careful and caring Hank was in his investigations. Disappointed when the boy had refused to allow anything but a routine blood test and physical – the anomalies those had revealed had been astounding enough that Hank had been desperate to investigate further, met with point blank refusal every time.

It had only been after finally receiving Peter's previous medical history that he'd realised why the boy wouldn't let him study him. He'd already been through far too much of that, had been so ill as a younger boy that he had on several occasions been hospitalised from the effects of his incomplete mutation. Finally, Hank had understood then, and eased back a little from pushing the speedster to let him run tests. Stopped seeing Peter as a collection of perfect adaptations, and instead began to see him as a vulnerable, damaged boy who had already at his age suffered way too much as a result of his mutation, and instead focussed on trying to help him manage day-to-day the best that he could.

He was virtually unmanageable in classes at first, fidgety and distracted and constantly disruptive somehow even when he didn't mean to be. Once, he'd stopped a class in its tracks when drumming his fingers on the table had shaken the entire thing apart to fall in a clattering pile at his feet, setting the entire class laughing not only at that but at Peter's surprised expression. Hank had taken to letting his pre-lunch class go early simply so they wouldn't all have to put up with the boy's unbelievably loud stomach demanding food and disrupting the end of the class, to allowing him extra breaks to go run off some of his twitchy energy before he could return to trying to sit still and concentrate, and turning a blind eye to him smuggling Twinkies into class. Somehow, Hank didn't find any of that irritating, but rather slightly saddening – Peter's entire life had to be run around the demands of his body, and his hammering thoughts and strung out nervousness didn't help him at all sometimes.

It was as a patient, however, that Hank had soon found that far from being a perfect Mutant, the boy was a danger to himself. He worked himself into states of horrible anxiety, exhausted himself and pushed himself beyond the point of sensible endurance far too often, as though trying to prove that for all his flightiness he was just as good as everyone else. Hurt himself badly with alarming frequency, leading Hank to discover how difficult it was to help him with pain – nothing short of full anaesthesia did anything. When he'd broken his leg, Hank had already been able to see new bone forming on the broken edges by the time he'd managed to set it, putting him in severe danger that the injury might not heal correctly without a long period of rest and recuperation. When a bug had gone around the school, necessitating most of the affected students to go to bed with a bucket beside them and rest for a week, requiring a little soup and a lot of TLC but nothing more than that, he'd had to admit Peter to the infirmary yet again before he did himself serious harm, hook him up to a drip so that he didn't starve to death whilst he wasn't able to keep food down. Though he'd got over the bug twice as fast as everyone else, he'd also had to take twice as much time off training after suffering it had depleted his resources to an almost catastrophic degree. In his first few months, Peter had ended up on that IV line so often that Hank considered leaving a permanent port in his hand to make it easier next time. The fascination remaining, he had soon begun to understand why some people could think of mutation as a curse.

Eventually, after much time spent with him working out ways to help him, Hank had finally begun to see Peter as something more than a marvellously gifted young man. Started to realise how much of his humour was a defence mechanism, how snarkiness often hid his fear, and how much he truly wasn't at all comfortable with his ruthlessly efficient body at times. Had wished he could help him feel better, rather than only help him physically, but contented himself with what he could do, and took all the protests and moaning in good part knowing that really, Peter did know what was good for him – he just didn't always enjoy doing it. Had built up a little arsenal of weapons against the damage Peter could do himself with his recklessness and desire to prove himself, formulated supplements to make sure he got his requisite 12000 calories a day in the field, even synthesised a drug that was capable of allowing him to get some quality sleep – though it had turned out to be highly addictive, sadly. Became used to seeing Peter in his infirmary with gashes, bruising, concussions and more and stopped trying to get him to allow testing, realising the impact it was having on his already fragile mental state. Got to grips with the idea that Peter wasn't an experiment or a miracle, but a Mutant like the rest of them just trying to make his way and survive in a hostile world. And whilst he now had some ways around it, he still dreaded it every time he would end up receiving the speedster in for treatment, wondering what new challenge he would bring this time – dreaded, but was also exhilarated by that challenge, all the same.


	4. Raven Darkholme

**A/N : Hope you're enjoying this little series, I'm having quite a bit of fun writing it. Characters you can definitely expect to see give their thoughts on our little darling include:**

 **Charles Xavier**

 **Kurt Wagner**

 **Jubilation Lee**

 **If you'd like to see someone else feel free to suggest them! Thanks for the reads and reviews.**

Raven :

Really? *That* was Erik's only son? This goofy, restless bundle of nerves who dressed like a rock-star and was continually on the hunt for mischief and sugar? Wow. Genetics really could be strange.

When she'd found out about Peter's parentage, with a wholly uncalled-for finger-mime to explain that when Mummy and Daddy Mutant love each other very much, Mutant Babies happened, her astonishment had not been at the idea that Erik had a son. After all, she was no stranger to his bed herself – much as his name might imply, he'd always been both attractive and repulsive in equal measure, and had never had any trouble with finding ladies – or gentlemen, if rumours were to be believed. It was not unimaginable that at some point, one of those liaisons had resulted in a kid – but *that* kid?

At least Erik hadn't raised him. If he'd had his father around, the Magneto she knew and loved would never have brought a child up to be so spectacularly ridiculous. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had not. Peter had a sweet, gentle heart that was obvious from the moment anyone looked beyond his childish exuberance – a feat which Raven had accomplished almost instantaneously. After all, of anybody she was the last to take things at face value – there was always something hidden in everyone, especially with Mutants. No wearer of rose-tinted spectacles, she doubted that the kind, soft young man would have even survived having Erik raise him – she wouldn't put it past her old lover to have gone full Spartan on the kid and scrapped him when he'd realised how non-violent he was. Erik had many fine qualities, but mercy and patience for silly children were not amongst them.

Though she had been called upon as their _de facto_ leader, Raven spoke little to the team. Preferred to observe them, watch for the faces they hid to be revealed. Everybody could change their whole self, she could just do it more literally. Once, she may have watched him to spot his weaknesses, to perfect her imitation, to have ammunition should she ever need to strike at him – not anymore. Not now that she had the whole world and Mutant race at stake. Not now that this team of children were depending on her guidance to lead them into battle – and hopefully lead them back out alive.

Used to her judgement being spot-on, she had been shocked when she had realised how wrong she was about the boy. She had seen nothing of his father in him at first, seen his softness and the terror at the battle ahead, seen how his wisecracking was just whistling past the graveyard and his cool was a poor cover for his nerves. Then he had fought, and Raven had paused in her hideaway, planning her next move, to stare in astonishment as that silly, kooky kid had charged straight in and punched a god in the face – more than once.

It took a Lensherr level of commitment to protecting his own to do something quite that stupidly brave.

Just briefly on the flight home, she had felt a fleeting stab of jealousy at the attentive care with which her old lover had held him, realising that it had not been her own peril but that of the boy crippled in the dust and awaiting death which had finally drawn Erik away from destruction. Her breathing was not coming easy, the iron fingertips that had lifted her by the throat had bruised her trachea and made it swell, and she was stuck in an awkward pose laying with her head tilted back to keep the airway open. The boy she had thought she knew was there to see, screaming and crying with pain, deathly white and obviously in shock, but his hidden face could no longer be concealed. Once she had seen the hard, unyielding will and strength in him, it could no longer be unseen.

She had no patience for his antics, back at the Academy – no more than she did for anybody else's. Her own foolish play-days were long over, taken from her by the cruelty of the human world and the loyalty she owed to Mutantkind. Did not hold back in barking orders at him in their training sessions, not letting him see the private smile when he would sass her in return, became proud of the warrior he was growing into and glad that though he had been raised by a human mother, there was no prejudice toward his own kind in him.

Sometimes, she thought Peter was more like Charles than he was his own father. He had that wicked humour, that way of introducing levity and fun where there had been darkness, that exuberance and charm that she remembered from the Professor's younger days with a slightly regretful fondness. Yet there was such strength there too. So much to overcome, so much trouble in his mind and such a hole in his heart where the companionship of others like himself should have fit, such a longing to simply be accepted and live freely, to use his gifts for the betterment of all. Between his frankly stupid behaviour and his seemingly endless quest to consume every last Twinkie in North America, he was an irritation and a pain, but he was their pain. Hers, even.

They never spent too much time together, really – only in the Danger Room or the gym – Raven could not deal with too much Peter, he intruded on her own quiet thoughts with far too much chat and fuss. But those times they did spend, she had found buried under the strength and the bravery the emptiness that he carried with him. The regrets for how he had once been, and for what he had done when he had known better. Rampant kleptomania and petty crime was hardly comparable to multiple murder and acts of terrorism, but sometimes she saw those same regrets in Erik too. That same desire to mend what he had broken and to make good what he might have spoiled, perhaps even to draw close to others after too many years spent alone. They expressed it very differently – were poles apart in so many ways – but there were times that Raven saw the commonality between father and son and realised that the apple had not fallen as far from the tree as she had originally thought.

Perhaps Erik was a dark mirror of what Peter could have become, or perhaps Peter was a beacon that could steer Erik out of the darkness he had built for himself. Either way, their similarities were too much to be ignored, now that she had seen them. Raven did not often admit how wrong she had been, but in this case, she had no choice.

He was, undoubtedly, his father's boy.


	5. Professor Charles Xavier

Charles :

He'd been wondering when the boy would show up again. Knew that the world was too small a place for a Mutant as powerful as him to try to manage on his own forever, and was glad that he'd finally decided to join them. Still didn't know why he hadn't offered him a place the first time around – but then again, he'd had a lot on his mind. Like stopping the all-out annihilation of his race, rewriting the fabric of history, and orchestrating the biggest prison break of that century. And he'd been high, so really it might just have slipped his attention. Nobody's perfect.

Still, he shouldn't have just left him that way. He wondered how long he'd spent in his mother's house waiting eagerly for the team to come collect him, how much it had hurt him when they never did. Knew when he had showed up that the answer was 'really quite a lot'.

To his credit, the boy had saved his questions about why Charles hadn't taken him to the school back when he was seventeen until after the battle had been over. Cooped up in the newly rebuilt Mansion with the Professor, sat on the sofa in the common room staring glumly at the TV with his plaster-encased right leg resting on a stool, no need for telepathy to tell Charles how miserable it was for an active kid to be forced into semi-immobility by an injury. He knew the feeling only too well. Not that telepathy would do much good anyway – Charles had already experienced the crushing pain of Peter's whirring mind enough to know that to peer in without caution was to invite a blinding migraine.

He'd changed, since that day back in 1973 when he'd impressed Charles with quite how astoundingly annoying he was. Not so much physically – different haircut, different (but still awful) clothes, a couple of inches taller, but otherwise much as he had been. Pale, thin, constantly on the move, a cheeky smirk and an overall air of devilry still very much in evidence, but now seeming to have lost something vital about him that his teenage self had possessed. It had taken time, when they had all settled back in after the battle was over, for Charles to realise that what was missing was the sense of optimism and hope that had been so obvious before. Certainly the seventeen-year-old Peter had been good at pretended cynicism – most teenagers were – but under that there had been an eagerness and a sense that now someone had shown him a way to use his gifts, he could make something of himself.

Charles had let that die in him, by leaving him and not going back. Now there was something else, not anger or resentment but a space in him that needed to be filled. He seemed incomplete somehow, without that spark of hope. When he spent time with the boy, carefully putting him into a trance state that approached a waking dream before he had dared to touch his mind, it had made him think of broken things, jigsaws with missing pieces, fine china with a hairline crack. Having felt that, Charles could not help but think of a rainbow in a storm every time he saw the boy crack that wide, naughty grin. It was a beautiful distraction, but the rainclouds were still there.

It had been better once he had started to build a relationship with his father. Better again after a couple of weeks at home with his mother enjoying all the comforts of maternal affection and home cooking. Better still when he had finally begun to get a grip on himself, build resilience in his mind with Charles' help even as Hank was helping him to gain strength in his body. By the time he had been with them a few months, Charles had begun to feel that those hairline cracks may be healing. Had been astonished when another session with Peter had revealed that the hole in him was bigger than ever. Certainly he was stronger, calmer, more in control of himself and his gifts, and yet despite all that he seemed sadder than he had ever been before.

Charles supposed all the education in the world wouldn't help when you were sometimes so stupid where it came to people and their feelings. Despite his empathic ability, it had taken a long time for him to realise that the only way those faults were going to heal was if Peter got an explanation for why he had been left behind – and more importantly, an apology.

He had given it gladly and sincerely. Left it tucked away in Peter's mind so that when he had brought the boy out of the trance, checked on him to make sure he was fully out and felt alright, the smile he had got had not been a rainy-day mirage, but a burst of genuine sunshine appearing from behind the clouds. Much remained to be done, but at last he felt he had set right his own mistake, and left Peter some assurance that he was welcome here.

Though Charles could block Peter's conscious thoughts and the half-formed underlayer of his mind that chattered away to itself, he could not block his emotional resonance. Others saw the strength there, the good cheer and helpful nature, the harmless practical joker and the sweet, gentle big brother figure who would wipe little one's tears and teach them coin tricks when they were sad. Charles, for all that he saw that uppermost surface, what Peter wanted everyone to think of him, could not help but peer underneath and feel as though with the soft pads of mental fingers, the very slightly raised surface of the closed cracks in his psyche.

Perhaps they would never entirely fade, remain there like braille that an empath could read, an echo of his suffering and isolation, but Charles could see, as he settled into the Academy and grew in confidence, that Peter was beginning to pour fresh layers of glaze over the damage. Hoped that the fix was genuine, not only cosmetic for the benefit of others. That Peter truly was getting better, not pretending now that he knew somebody could see and would worry. For all his power, Charles would never be able to tell the difference.


	6. James 'Logan' Howlett

**A/N : *Deep Breath* OK, so I wasn't planning to do Logan (due to timey-wimey wibbly-wobbliness) but here he is. This is set during Days of Future Past, unlike the rest which take place Post-Apocalypse, since Logan and Peter's timeline diverged after DoFP and have not yet crossed properly save a little incident at Alkali Lake. All information points to Origins being set in 1994, which would make the Quicksilver Logan freed 38 years old according to his age in the 1973-set DoFP.**

 **Blame rewritten history for everything else...**

Logan :

As much as he liked anyone, he'd always liked Quicksilver. Of course, in the head-bending way that history-changing time-travel had, it was entirely likely that this version wouldn't end up growing into the Mutant he'd freed from Stryker's island, but he sort of hoped he would. It would be one more person he could count on in years to come, and there were already too few of those.

Full-grown and pushing forty, the Quicksilver that Logan had known was sharp-witted, snarky, antisocial, hopelessly irritable, and always up for anything that would distract him from the crushing mundanity of living in a world that ran so slowly. Extra-legal activities were just diversions to him, bypassing security systems an amusing pastime, walls just something else to run on, and sometimes through. Alongside his twin sister (with whom, Logan had to admit, he shared a somewhat disturbingly close relationship,) he was a danger to man and god, and on nobody's side but his own. Logan respected that in a guy.

Imagining he had been much the same but shorter as a teenager, he'd immediately thought of the speedster when it came time to plan a prison break – who else could get into the Pentagon, and more importantly out again with his father safely in tow? Tracking him down was easy too – there was only one Maximoff in the phone book, and though many things were missing from Logan's memory, he remembered Speedy's Mom's name from many drunken conversations, so her house was easy to find. Unsurprised to find the poor woman harried and immediately assuming her son was in trouble (because when had he ever been out of it?) he'd been in for a nasty shock when he'd at last met his old drinking buddy face-to-face aged seventeen.

Fast alright – though not as fast as he would be one day. Small and very slight, rather than the dashing broad-shouldered narrow-waisted man he remembered, and that hair… Logan had forgotten quite how bad seventies hair was until then. Still snarky and untrusting, but chipper and mischevious rather than simply moody. After five minutes in his company, Logan had started to wonder if this had been such a great idea after all, getting the overall impression that Pietro ( _Peter…_ for some reason this one had Anglicised his name,) was more of a liability than an asset. He'd been willing though, and at that stage, they needed all the allies they could get.

More than anything, he reminded him of Wade. That never-ending yap, that always-ready comeback and continual humorous chatter, that ability to be distracted by the tiniest thing and lose all focus. Logan could not have imagined Pietro had ever been like this as a kid, but time was a funny thing after all. He'd tried to keep to himself in the car, field the questions about his claws ('cool, but disgusting'… 'Tro never did mince his words) his mission, his silence, with monosyllabic sullenness. It had not deterred the boy in the slightest, and he'd reminded him of his old team-mate more with every passing moment. Wade didn't know how to shut his yap either.

It had been when the lives of the less invulnerable amongst them had been in danger, however, that Logan had finally realised that truly, the Quicksilver he knew was in there after all. In fact, this one was perhaps even braver and more reckless. Saving everyone's ass in the blink of an eye and stood dripping wet and waiting for them on the other side of the room. Chewing on a wad of gum and waiting for their praise. Totally out of character for him, Logan had given him some – just a clap on the shoulder, a muttered thanks, but it had been enough to make the boy beam at him as if he'd presented him with a gold medal.

He'd seen the real difference then between this boy and the Pietro that he'd come to know, many years in his own future. Peter was not yet hardened by a lifetime spent with nobody but his sister ever being able to stand him, was still able to take a compliment without immediately shrugging it off with brash arrogance. He hadn't been held captive, experimented on, lost his innocence and his sanity to the cruelty of the world, had not yet had a chance to grow cold and hard and more like his father every day. He still thought there were winners and losers, still had ambitions to be the former. He wasn't the Quicksilver Logan knew, but he was one that he thought he could grow to like. Grudgingly, but he could.

Really, far too much like Wade though – albeit far less murdery. Logan hoped that in whatever timeline came to pass when they were done, the two would never meet. He doubted many would survive the chaos that would ensue if those two ever decided to party together. Hoped too that Peter would keep some of his cheerfulness, rather than becoming the man that Logan knew in the future, destined to be alone in his own high-speed world and bitterly resenting the fact that nobody could keep up with him. Knew that he would forget him, once time healed itself, but hoped that one day they would meet again.

Maybe when he was older and less chatty.


	7. Ororo Munro

Ororo :

He is a whirlwind. Something she understands well, knows intimately, and yet – this one cannot be controlled. He is a raging hurricane that can leave destruction as he passes, and yet he will not. He has power that cannot be contained, and yet he somehow manages to contain himself. She cannot help but love him. Even when he was her enemy, even when he stood against her, she could not help but look at the brave boy and admire his courage and his tenacity. Could do nothing to him, when he was faster than lightning and more powerful than any tornado. She fears him, and out of her fear has grown respect.

Her respect is not easily won, nor easily kept.

She had returned to the grand house is Westchester hardly expecting anybody to accept her, when she had so recently opposed them, surprised to find that many of the residents were fascinated by her and welcoming of her. More surprised still when, a short while after their return, some had seemed to be more wary of him than her. Perhaps they had heard stories, perhaps they had heard a rumour. Perhaps, like her, they were simply in awe of his ability. Accustomed to looking out for herself first and watching carefully, Ororo had observed him for a time, until he had caught her looking, not been able to escape in time to avoid his questions, found that his chatter was just as fast as everything else about him, soon dizzied by it.

He'd heard she was a master thief, only looked smugly at her and raised a questioning eyebrow at the idea. When she had laughed and told him nobody could do better, he had cleared his throat and extracted the necklace she had been wearing from a pocket, dangled it in front of her face with another of those sly smiles. Gone from sight before she could either grab it back or show her displeasure. The necklace was waiting for her on her dresser when she had returned to her room, cleaned and polished.

Certainly, he was one of the most annoying people she had ever met. Without a doubt she felt justified in fearing him, when none of her skills were of any use with him. He had never apologised for stealing from her only to prove that he could, but she had taken his return of her property in better condition than before as an apology, possibly even an offer of friendship. Smiled to herself, and took him up on the offer. Began to realise that unlike her, he thought first of others and second of himself, that though he was a native of this country he felt just as much a stranger as she did, was willing to extend a hand of friendship to anybody and yet for all that, he was shy at times. His contradictions added to her fascination.

Rarely affected by it too much, his mischief only amused her. He had become a fixture in her life, and one which she had accepted though there was rarely a word between them, only fond looks and the occasional touch of the hand. Enough to reassure them that they were on the same team, that they may be strangers but at least they were strange together. It was only after she had taken more responsibility for the younger children that she had seen the huge heart he had, the patience and love he could show those small frightened Mutants. It had only made her love him more.

Though there were only a couple of years between them, she had soon adopted Peter as an honorary member of her Juniors, so often was he around and so naturally did he interact with the children. When he would help her out in her classes and activities, she would forget that he was 27, would ruffle his hair and smile down at him sat on the floor with the little ones as though he were only as old as they were. Forgot the terrifying power in him, the genuine danger he posed to her and the unstoppable force of him, and instead gladly welcomed him into the warmth of her affection along with the Very Small Mutants who he seemed happier with than his own age group.

In time, she had begun to lose the image of him that she had first held. Forgot the strong and powerful enemy who had faced her without fear in Cairo, and saw instead the young, loving boy who would even join the Littles for a nap sometimes. Curl up with them on the mats, allow a tiny hand to bury itself in his ruffled silver hair, scoop little bodies in close to him, seem so much one of them. Grew to treasure him for that, and admire his loyalty, yet reminded herself that to forget how dangerous he could be was foolish in the extreme.


	8. Kurt Wagner

**A/N : Do I detect a hint of NightSilver? Read it however you wish...**

Kurt :

Without a doubt, he was one of the most beautiful things that Kurt had seen in this new and dazzling world. Though he had seen spectacle and splendour in the Circus many times, America was so much brighter and more splendid, and the people he had found himself amongst! Each one so self-assured, so kind, so happy to show him their country and their world. How could he be anything but overjoyed, with so many wonderful people around him? Like the acrobats in their sequins, Peter caught his eye like a beacon from the start, so dazzling in his shiny silver jacket and shoes, with that hair that caught the light and almost sparkled, simply breath-taking to behold in motion. Nobody had ever caught Kurt before he met Peter, and it had only added to his overall admiration of the older boy.

The others taught him a great deal about the American way of life, about the wonders of the Mall and the treasures inside, but Peter had taught him his most valuable lessons. Had been appalled to find out how limited Kurt's experience of music was. With generosity he had soon come to realise was highly characteristic, Kurt had come back to his room one day to find a brand-new stereo sat on his bed, a box of cassette tapes beside it carefully labelled in Peter's surprisingly neat handwriting.

They listened to some of them together, Kurt swinging from a lampshade by his tail as was his habit, feeling more comfortable up there. Peter stretching out on his bed, looking up at him and chatting long into the night. Kurt began to see why the music was so important to him, began to associate him with it. Would listen to certain songs by himself, and hear in the words and melodies a depth of feeling that Peter found difficult to express in any other way. Sometimes an anger, a call to justice, sometimes plaintive longing for acceptance and peace, sometimes a happiness that bubbled up through the songs. Those evenings after class spent with the older boy, both lost in the music he would bring over, Kurt felt that he was privileged to see behind Peter's cool act to the philosophical, intelligent man underneath.

He knew showmanship. He knew misdirection and flashiness and how to blind the audience with your dazzling feats and never let them see behind the smoke and mirrors. Knew too that somehow, though he had never even been to the Circus, Peter was a natural showman. Not when he was sharing his music, though. They would talk quietly – Kurt of Munich and his adoptive parents, of his life in the big top and his few adventures. Peter would tell him things that Kurt did not think he told anybody else about his past.

They went to classes and lunch and training together, Kurt like a little blue shadow by his side, became a double-act of fun and games that some dreaded and others merely laughed at. Pitted speed against teleportation taking unspoken turns to go easy and let the other win, built a playful and unlikely bond that had some of the students wondering if there was not more to their friendship. Peter had only laughed when he heard those rumours, grabbed Kurt in a tight hug and planted a kiss on his lips, leaving Kurt to exaggeratedly _bamf!_ away and wipe his face off, but join the laughter. Learned from Peter not to care what anybody thought or chose to believe about him, and simply to trust that he was just as he should be.

Nobody, not even the Professor had done so much to help Kurt realise that though his appearance was frightening and strange, he was a valued and much loved member of the team, and for that he loved Peter dearly. Would never see any harm come to him on missions, always looked first for him when he had a free afternoon to spend, saw in him a sweet and generous soul who would surely be forgiven any of his past indiscretions, now living a remarkably Christian life for someone who was not Christian. Peter was the sort of person that Kurt thought God would make an exception for, and welcome gladly into Paradise. Admired his ability to make others feel better and even tried to emulate it, feeling as if simply knowing Peter made him a better person.

Many of the others students had gained Kurt's admiration, but none had won his heart the way that Peter had.


	9. Jubilation Lee

Jubilee :

She'd though she was a snappy dresser, until she met him. Just *so* cool in that metallic jacket with the collar popped, forever chewing gum and giving people that lazy, cheeky glance over the top of his shades. She *had* to be around him, nobody could be that cool and not be worth knowing. For a while she even fancied that they looked cute together, soon realising that her flirting was absolutely wasted on him, and that she'd much rather have him as a friend.

The first little while had been all fun, all the time. Pranks and trips to the mall and arcade games and rides in 'borrowed' open-top cars, streaming sparks and screaming with the thrill as he drove far too fast down the quiet roads around the estate. Wild nights out at clubs that he would talk his way into for her, knowing she was underage but somehow managing to charm their way past doormen. His energy exhilarated her, out hours after others would flag and have to go to bed, whipping her away to a burger joint afterward to grab piles of greasy junk food, staying up hours more when they finally returned home chatting and playing records and carrying on dancing around her room until they would be sternly told to go to bed. Mornings of barely keeping her eyes open in class, lots of coffee and lectures from her teachers about getting more sleep, whilst Peter would be as bouncy and bright as ever. It should have annoyed her, instead she admired anyone who could party so hard and still look so awake the next day.

It hadn't been until months after they had met that she'd realised that far from chosing to party hard all night, Peter's antics were a way of keeping himself occupied. Even those nights they didn't go out, he would be awake late buzzing with energy and up early in the morning just as energetic. She would skip out on those take-outs and midnight kitchen raids, pass up a pizza in favour of a salad, whilst he simply wasn't able to do that, would literally make himself ill if he didn't get an almost-continual supply of sugar and grease. Sometimes, Jubilee felt like sitting down and chilling out. To do so drove Peter round the twist, he simply couldn't sit still with her, couldn't keep quiet, was not so much bubbly as absolutely hyperactive. She realised, in short, that being Peter wasn't actually a whole lot of fun at all.

She'd already begun to see the pitfalls of being like him when she'd first realised that they had far more in common than cool jackets and a love of dancing. She'd sat in a fair few counsellor's offices in her life, knew the signs of feeling low well from her own experience. Been remarkably unsurprised when she had realised that far from being the outgoing and tough kid he presented himself as, Peter could get cripplingly low at times. When it was really bad, he would stay in his room all day with the curtains drawn, not answer his door, try to just bury his head under the bedsheets and hold off hunger with large quantities of chocolate. That was the worst sign, she'd quickly realised.

Finding him that way had changed her mind fast about him. Still thought of him as her best friend, her partner-in-mischief and bringer of fun, but now also saw that he needed a lot of looking after which he was sometimes not capable of doing for himself. Took it upon herself to make sure he knew she was always there, half-expected him to put his tough guy act on and dismiss her attempts to care, but seen straight away how grateful he was to have someone around who cared. That for all he was fun and helpful and big-hearted himself, sometimes he simply couldn't be that. Jubilee made it her mission to be that for him when he couldn't do it.

After that first time, knocking on his door until he had snapped and let her in, sitting with him in the dark and listening while he admitted how he could feel sometimes, providing as much reassurance and comfort as she could, they had been even firmer friends. She had shrugged off her shallow perception of him, and realised at last that his exuberance could be like fireworks – beautiful and powerful, dazzling at times, but ultimately just a show. Just a way of keeping people distracted from the fact that he was lonely and scared a lot, and needed someone to be there for him. Had not felt sorry for him – nothing so patronising as pity – but she'd understood.

He was more than a classmate and a party-animal to her then. He was someone she could go to, knowing he could do the same with her. A deeply emotional and sometimes overwhelmed young man who like her, had grown up alone even when he was surrounded by people. She'd been glad when a few months tutelage at the Academy had helped him calm down a little, that his black moods were less extreme and frequent than they had been, and that he was starting to feel more settled and at home. Carried on spending her time with him both because she still loved his wacky humour and because she wanted to keep an eye on him, and make sure he kept getting better.

They still partied, now and then, but she had started claiming tiredness a lot earlier, making sure Peter would at least try to get some rest by not encouraging him to stay out dancing until dawn. Looked out for those subtle signs that he was starting to feel bad and jump on them fast. Realised that though she was nearly ten years younger, she had to take some responsibility for Peter and look after him a little. Accepted that role gladly, and never missed the days when she had thought he was nothing but the coolest kid in school one bit.


	10. Erik Lensherr

Erik :

Of all the Mutants they could have found to break him out, it had to be this one, did it? Surely there was some super-strong brute who could have done the same job, or a teleporter, anybody but this child who had from the moment they had met annoyed Erik so thoroughly that he had wanted nothing more but to belt him around the face and scream at him to shut up and calm down.

Nobody much spoke to you, when you were incarcerated in the Pentagon. Now and again they would check he was alive, but there was little in the way of conversation. That suited Erik just fine, having no wish to speak to the idiots who had him locked up in any case. However coming out of that silent world to this stream of babble was jarring in the extreme. He could not help thinking that he'd rather have had the neck injury the boy had reportedly protected him from than this psychological whiplash of suddenly being around someone who Could. Not. Be. Quiet.

Even when he had his answers to the questions he had pestered everyone with, he would soon grow distracted, change the subject, demand that they stop the car and get him something to eat, told it was a getaway vehicle and they could not simply stop for snacks and whining for almost an entire solid quarter hour about how hungry he was until at last Hank had agreed to stop.

And yet Erik had not loathed him. Had, in fact, been uncharacteristically tolerant all things considered. Perhaps another boy would have had his neck broken for being so flighty and noisy, but this boy – the one with the strangely familiar deep brown eyes and a smile that pulled at something in Erik's memory – escaped unscathed somehow. Erik had even thanked him for his efforts, something which did not come naturally to him at all. Felt he owed the boy a favour, and would not have been entirely sorry if he had decided to join them permanently.

For a short time, he had thought of the boy often. Considered asking Charles more about him, where he had found him and who his family were. Felt oddly like he should know him, though they had never met and were not likely to do so again. Did not ask, and dismissed his considerations at last for more pressing matters. When it had all been over, the boy with the face he felt he knew was all but forgotten. In the intervening years, he had far more to think about than a boy with familiar dark eyes.

He had been surprised to see him, on that battlefield in Cairo. Fully grown now and making a good show of seeming brave and professional, but again that stab of strange familiarity was there. Not only that, but a look in his eyes as if he was desperate to tell Erik something. Managed to ignore the boy again but then that scream of pain, immediately drawing his attention.

Erik did not understand until later why that shriek had rattled him so much, but it had tugged at his heart. He had not been able to see this boy get killed, wanted suddenly to rescue him from the pain that his foolish bravery had got him into. Gone without thinking to his aid, and realised why he had been there after all. The knowledge had been a slap in the face, emotions fighting within him – horror and regret for his actions, for not realising sooner, gratitude and joy for having him at last, anger for him having been hurt and self-recrimination for having forgotten him, for not recognising him sooner. Above all that, penetrating his being and guiding his hand, the need to save him.

Though finally returning in the jet, the boy had been in such pain and shock that he'd thrown up on Erik's shirt and passed out in his arms, he'd felt contented to have him there. Knew that whatever injuries he had sustained could be fixed, and that from now on things could change. That though he had much explaining to do and many bridges to build, he had too this boy. Watched his face as they had returned, curled a blanket around his slight frame and held him close for warmth, considering the favour repaid but the journey only just begun. Realised that when he had looked into that cheeky face he had seen his mother there, a woman long-abandoned whom he had not known had borne him a son.

So that was why he had not loathed the boy, despite how irritating he was. That was why he had put up with all his chatter and wished he would come back with them. He was not alone in this world. He had a son.


	11. Peter Maximoff

**A/N : Final chapter! I'm not adverse to writing more of these, if I missed someone out, but for now it's done. Thank you for reading and reviewing, you have been wonderful. xx**

Peter :

I'm nothing special – not really. Wait, that's a total lie. I'm super-awesomely-special, Just not in a good way all the time.

So I'm fast, that's no big deal. I thought it was, once, before I met kids who could read minds and guys with blue fur and tails who could teleport. Now it doesn't seem like such a terrific ability, even if it comes in pretty handy. Trouble is I can't switch it off, not even when I want to go to sleep or when I just want to sit down and watch TV for a couple hours. My mind's always going like a dynamo, or maybe a few dynamos together, spinning out of control. I'm better at catching it now than I was when I was a kid. Some people tell me it makes me pretty smart, but I'm not so sure. Anyone who can move fast has to think fast, right? And besides, it's a pain.

Ever had a dog? I didn't, though I really want one. A greyhound maybe, or a whippet – something fast and sleek. Well anyway, imagine you've got this dog, this amazing fluffy friendly dog, and all you want to do is play fetch with it. So you throw it a stick and the dog sits there for like an hour staring at the stick, then picks it up and walks in super-slo-mo back to you. Would you be having fun playing fetch with your dog? No, you wouldn't, you'd be mad as hell after about two throws. That's what playing with others is like to me, all the time. I'm there tapping my foot and goofing off just to pass the time and everyone else is _soooooooo freeeeeeeaaaakin' slooooooooow…_ even when they're going as fast as they can. It's no wonder I get grumpy sometimes.

Still, it's not all bad. Sure, I can get cranky, but most of my feelings usually pass pretty quick too – and there's not many things that can't be fixed with an extra-large pizza and a nap, after all. I'd like to say I'm a pretty happy guy all things considered, but that would be a total lie too. It's better than it used to be, and I feel a little guilty for getting sad when other kids have it so much worse than me, but I get the blues pretty hard, like, a *lot*, and a pizza can't always fix that. Like I said though, it's better than it used to be. At least I don't…. no, I'm not going there. Too dark, man – there's some things better left unsaid.

And at least I have my family. All of them – my Dad too, finally! Never even knew I had a Dad until I saw him trying to destroy the world. Well… obviously I knew I had one, I wasn't grown in a lab or something. And I've got the school, and some pretty cool friends who stick around even though I'm a pain in the ass about 99% of the time. So I guess even though there's a lot wrong with me, I'm kinda lucky to have what I do. I even have a girl that likes me, though anyone can see she's way too good for me. A woman like her should be with some movie-star handsome guy who can treat her like a queen, but for some reason she's decided on me – weird-looking, twitchy, walking-disaster-area, stupid, crazy, skinny, ditzy little ole' me. I sure hope she doesn't come to her senses any time soon. I'd hate to lose her to some stud like Summers, even if she does deserve better than yours truly.

Tell the truth, I wonder why so many people seem to like me the way they do. I guess I'm funny, sometimes. And I'm nice as much as I can be to everyone – I mean, got to make up for being me somehow, right? And doing a few good turns, a little paying-it-forward, seems the best way. It's no sweat for me to be helpful, and it helps to fill the time. And there's some stuff I'm good at – like music. I play a pretty mean bass, though I don't let anyone catch me practicing, I get all nervous and miss the strings when someone's listening. And running, obviously. World Record Holder, no less…. Well for about a week until it got out that I was a Mutant and there was a whole big thing and… but that's a story for another time. And…

Nope. That's it. All I'm good at. Babysitting, running, and playing an instrument nobody even knows I own. Pathetic, huh? Oh wait! I can also eat sixty-two doughballs in one minute. I wonder if Mutants are banned from competitive eating?….

Have you heard of a thing called Imposter Syndrome? We read about it in class one time, it kinda struck a chord with me (a B-flat…. Wakka-wakka-wakka!). So you're this qualified or experienced person, a teacher maybe or a doctor, and you're standing up at a conference or treating a patient and you suddenly think "What if everyone here finds out I'm a fake?!" and you feel like you don't belong, that any minute now someone's going to go "Hey, that woman's not a real doctor! She wasn't BORN a doctor, she had to go to SCHOOL! Fake! Fake!". That's me, in the X-Men. I keep feeling like one day we'll be fighting something like, I dunno, a five-headed dragon-cat-monster, and the team will suddenly go "Who's this Quicksilver guy? Why is he here again? He's not a real X-Man!" – weird, I know, but I'm certain it'll happen one day. Hope my Mom doesn't rent out the basement, and I'll still have somewhere to go when it does.

So that's me. See? Nothing special.


	12. Andrew Tobin, Aged 8

My Best Friend by Andy Tobin (aged eight)

My best friend at school is called Peter. He's not in my class because he's old, but he's there a lot and he's always nice to everybody. When I'm sad and I miss my Mom and Dad and cats Peter comes and gets me and we play cars. There are cats at the school too and sometimes we find one of them to stroke and even though it's not Smoky the cat it's fun and it makes me feel lots better.

Peter is friends with lots of people but because he's really fast he can do fun stuff with everyone and not leave anyone out. He's better than other grown ups because he doesn't get tired and when you jump on him he doesn't complain or say ow you hurt me. He doesn't tell people off and sometimes when someone is naughty he sits them down and tells them why it's naughty but he doesn't shout or make people feel bad he just tells them why it's wrong and they shouldn't do it. I think Peter is quite naughty too but nobody tells him off either because he has a nice smile and he runs away too fast.

Even though Peter is old he likes playing games and having lots of fun with me and he pushes me on the swing really high. He's really strong and sometimes if you ask him nicely he will take you for a ride around the school carrying you tight and the world goes blurry and when he puts you down it's like you have been on a rollercoaster but more fun than that.

My favourite thing about Peter is that he likes to cuddle people and holds my hand like my Dad does and sometimes I go into rock when he's cuddling me but he doesn't tell me off even when it hurts him a little bit because he knows I didn't mean it. It happens less with him because he makes me feel safe and happy and I go into rock when I'm scared so it's okay. He's really good at Frogger and lots of other games but sometimes he lets me win because he's really kind and he knows people like to win at things.

When I grow up I want to be like Peter and be friends with everybody and be fun and nice and make people feel better. I don't think I can be fast because Auntie Ro says we can't change our gift but I can be like him in other ways. I think Peter is the nicest person I ever met and I am really happy that he's my friend and that he comes to see us lots.

 _Very good work Andy, well done. B+_


End file.
